Sherlock's Second Suicide
by Vabbler
Summary: Post Reichenbach: John is mourning and Sherlock is bored. After his first suicide at St Bart's he can't exactly prance into 221B and demand for John to entertain him. Plus, he's too stubborn to ask Mycroft for help. But things are about to get interesting, and dangerous for the Holmes brothers. And this time, it might be Mycroft reaching for Sherlock's pulse.
1. Chapter 1

The room was deadly silent. Not even the glowing fire dared to spit its burning embers, but only achieving to make long, lazy shadows of dead, inanimate objects.

In the midst of the clustered room lay a body that was thrown over one of the plush armchairs like a scrap rag.

Long legs were stretched out awkwardly, cladded in blue pajama bottoms hitched slightly to the ankles. The heels that were buried in the thick carpet were calloused from late night chases and paces.

But now the tall, athletic figure was unnaturally still. There was no strained rise or heavy fall of the broad chest, not a single breath escaped to ripple the air.

The body had short curly black hair, splayed across sculpted cheekbones a god would be jealous of. Intelligent blue eyes unseen beneath the closed eyelids, seemingly sewn enchanting lips were parted a little, but they were absent of colour; blood chased away by the cold.

A half empty gun was hooked on a strong finger, the safety unlatched.

There was a newspaper in the other hand: a picture of the lifeless body.

Only in the photograph the body was standing. Awkwardly but confidently stood. On the coloured paper, blue eyes were icy but alive, cheeks dusted with colour, assaulted by the cold winds of the London winter.

Upon the tangle of curly hair, a hat nestled snugly The expression of the owner was clearly unhappy that the deer stalker was upon their head. A fake smile was reluctantly plastered on the detective's face, conjured only for the friend that stood to the side. For John Watson, not for the cameras that flashed around them.

Doctor Watson stood to attention. His hands were by his side, his face a mask of a soldier's.

However, the doctor had unconsciously angled his body towards his friend, like a protective stance one would take to protect their child or partner.

If John Watson was ever questioned upon this rumour; that he and his flat mate were more than just acquaintances, he would immediately deny it. He would then distastefully point out that his house mate was married to their work.

The head line above the snap shot informed 'World's only Consulting Detective Proven a Fake.'

That was the last thing that was read before a shot erupted in the room; before the deafening silence settled with booming finality.


	2. Chapter 2

An urgent rap on the door sliced through the emptiness, the sound hollow, falling on deaf ears. It became more urgent and impatient, yet the detective never moved a muscle. The man on the other side of the door gave up, slipped a key into the lock and with a soft click the metal slid away. The harsh light drooped into the gloomy room.

Specks of white dust scattered shyly across Mycroft's expensive suit, settling on his shoulders. He surveyed the room with nervous and expectant flickers. A tiny sound of horror fell from his lips as he took in the room, from the red walls to the inanimate body. Then rage coursed through his frame.

"Sherlock Holmes! Get up at once." He barked in a defiant tone. He plunged his umbrella into the lush carpet as if he could reverse the damage done by the loaded gun. And as if by magic, Sherlock opened his eyes and opened his mouth.

"Brother. Did you stop a war from breaking out today?" Mycroft continued to glare at him furiously.

"Sherlock Holmes." Mycroft hissed again, "What have you done to my bloody wall!"

"Oh, that?" Sherlock drawled, waving the gun at the wall in question, "I was bored." And he sank deeper into the chair for effect, and threw the newspaper onto the wooden table next to him.

"Couldn't you find anything better to do?" Mycroft sighed wearily, defeated by his brother's understandable argument; he entered and laid his umbrella aside.

"Nope," The word made a popping noise that echoed in the room and into the next room via the multiple holes in the wall.

"Besides your strategy tactics to keep Russia on a leash, doesn't really interest me." Sherlock complained as he twirled the gun towards the disregarded laptop, "You might want to think of a better password, you're worse than John."

Mycroft ignored him, and instead asked, "Where did you get the gun from anyway?"

A slight raise of an eyebrow from Sherlock, and he knew it was a silly question to ask. Weapons of destruction were easier to get hold of than food nowadays. So ignoring his little brother, Mycroft picked up the unwanted newspaper.

"You're paying for a new wall." He added flippantly.

"Why? It's not like you can't afford it. You got a promotion today, judging from your thumbs."

Mycroft huffed with annoyance. "Yes." He stretched the word out slowly. "You **were** bored weren't you?" From behind the newspaper he added, "I rather thought you wouldn't notice."

Sherlock frowned, "And why wouldn't I?" his eyes were narrowed in suspicion; they looked like slivers of blue ice.

"I assumed you would be in a terrible mess, away from your John and all that." Sherlock said nothing. Mycroft continued. "But you are in a bad state, you're aim was sloppy on 4 of those shots. I thought you'd be rushing to his bed side."


	3. Chapter 3

"Bed side?" Sherlock questioned in alarm, sitting up sharply.

"Yes, he's been in a terrible state after you're little stunt at Bart's. And Sherlock. A suicide? Mummy was disappointed." Paying no attention to his last comment, Sherlock leaped from the chair and began to pace, scratching at his head furiously with the barrel of his loaded gun.

"State?" he asked frantically, "What state is that?" Mycroft rolled his eyes as he set down the paper, nothing taking his interest. Not even the half-truth article about the death of the consulting detective, who was now burning a hole on his floor.

"The state of which he won't react to anything. Not even for Mrs Hudson's herbal tea. Shame."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock had stopped pacing and he was standing rigidly staring at a space beyond the window. The older man looked up curiously, uncertain of his brother's tone of voice. It had too much emotion in it, too much pain with a hint of panic. He had to look up to make sure it was Sherlock who had spoken. Frowning a little, he made a sound to encourage him to continue, although very doubtful as to what he would find.

"Does he miss me?" Sherlock had emphasised 'miss' the word foreign on his tongue, usually when it escaped his lips it would be; 'Did I miss anything?' referring to his deductions and observations. The word never slipped out due to emotional attachment, the only thing ever attached was challenge and big headedness.

Mycroft reached for his umbrella and leaned forward to rock to his feet, while saying, "Why don't we find out for ourselves?' smiling slightly.

"No!" Sherlock shouted stubbornly. He leaped back into his chair childishly and he curled both feet under his best dressing gown, cradling the gun to his chest. The weapon rose and fell along with the heave of his breathing. Mycroft, who was half way to the door by now, stopped. Before turning to face the sulking man, he looked heavenwards searching for patience from the ceiling.

"And why not?" His tone was similar to a patronising mother, "Don't tell me you're giving him the cold shoulder Sherlock, that's utterly childish."

Sherlock leaned his head slightly as if to say, "I have grown up a little!" his silent treatment, however, did not convince Mycroft of his maturity level.

"If you have no plausible explanation not to see him, then why prolong his suffering?"

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Suffering? So it's my fault he's suffering?" the words were spat out in haste, his tone sharp and harsh, "Don't turn this on me Mycroft, all this **SUFFERING** wasn't my fault for once! I was cleaning up the mess you made!" Silence followed after his outburst. The raw emotion in Sherlock's icy blue eyes was burning at Mycroft's greyer ones. Guilt froze Mycroft's bones. Fury boiled Sherlock's blood. And the extraordinary Holmes brothers were both drowning in ordinary human emotions.


	4. Chapter 4

The two stood beside each other and blue eyes battled silently. Their chins were raised with challenge, lips tight in concentration, and a twitch of Sherlock's eye seemed to be the only wound inflicted. Now, close to each other, it was surprising that they were related. Yes, both did have angled features; Mycroft's softened by years of pretend; Sherlock's softened by a few months of John Watson. Blue grey eyes were both intelligent and intimidating, yet Mycroft's were cold and calculating, Sherlock's tender and breakable. Like ice melted by affection. Mycroft had a grey charcoal suit, pressed and pristine, even after preventing a war. His brother in his pyjamas and dressing gown, rapidly announcing,

"Vatican cameos!" even with the signal, Sherlock had whipped his hand on his brother's shoulder to force him to duck. A nanosecond later a bullet exploded the glass window and ripped through the curtains and into the thick wood of the door opposite. Then more bullets followed, seeking human skin and bone to penetrate. All the while the two brothers lay on the soft carpets, chuckling softly.

"Who did you piss off this time?" Sherlock challenged over the whizzing bullets.

"Lots of people Sherlock, but I believe I am not the target of this assassin." Mycroft turned to look at the ceiling as a bullet skimmed 3 inches above his nose. Wrinkling his nostrils faintly, he deduced: "This one's for you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And who would want to kill a dead man?"


End file.
